


Washed-Out

by Ellenar_Ride



Series: Mending Links [5]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: A Link Between Worlds
Genre: All the time, Character Study, Gen, It's not fun, Mending Links 'Verse, Sav knows how to handle it!, Wash experiences sensory overload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21569548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellenar_Ride/pseuds/Ellenar_Ride
Summary: Since the first time he peeled himself from the wall, something inside of him has been broken. At least, he can't think of any other way to describe the sensation. It's like the three-dimensional world is too bright and loud and lively, overwhelming, and he can't breathe and he can't think and everything is just too much. And Wash himself is grayed out and dull and exhausted, fuzzy around the edges, muted and soft.(Prompt: Desaturated)
Series: Mending Links [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545610
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	Washed-Out

When Ravio gave Wash his bracelet, Wash didn't think much of it. To be perfectly honest, it smelled _weird,_ and if he hadn't been conditioned that it was rude to reject a gift he wouldn't have taken it. Kindness was _suspicious,_ but refusing to play along only made people madder.

Wash is never grateful for the gift. The more time passes, the more he hates it. Well, _hate_ is a strong word, but he's pretty sure it's the right one. The bracelet saves his life. Gives him the power to defy Yuga, and save Hyrule and Lorule. It's the one single reason why the world as they know it has yet to come crashing down. Wash still hates it with a burning passion.

Burning isn't the right word. Wash is sure about that one. Passion isn't right, either. Both words are too... energetic. Lively. Bright. Wash just doesn't have the strength to keep up that sort of active, overpowering emotion. And it's all because of that stupid bracelet.

Every time Wash uses the bracelet, every time he melts into the wall and peels himself off again, he feels a little less like himself. A little less like Wash. A little more hollow, and tired, and gray. Listless. Drifting. Tired. Every time he drags himself off the stonework, he leaves a little more of his color behind. But the bracelet _won't come off,_ and it's a reflex, now, to become a painting on the wall when he's frightened or hurt. Day by day, battle by battle, Wash loses more and more of himself. He becomes grayer and grayer, desaturated, washed out. Faded.

Since the first time he peeled himself from the wall, something inside of him has been broken. At least, he can't think of any other way to describe the sensation. It's like the three-dimensional world is too bright and loud and lively, overwhelming, and he can't breathe and he can't think and everything is just too much. And Wash himself is grayed out and dull and exhausted, fuzzy around the edges, muted and soft.

It scares him, how much he's changed. These days, every time he pulls himself out of his painted reality and back into the chaotic living world, he just wants to crawl back in and wrap himself in the muffled isolation. Everything is so much easier as a painting. Quieter. The sound is distant enough it doesn't hurt his ears. Physical sensation just doesn't exist. There's so much less to process, he can actually make sense of every scrap of input.

Sometimes he wonders if Ravio knew what the bracelet would do to him, back when he decided it would be a good gift. If Ravio knew how much of Wash it would steal, how much it would dilute, how much it would fade. Wash hopes he didn't know. The idea that Ravio—a friend, despite how annoying he can be—would intentionally condemn him to this drifting, mindless misery... it's too terrible to bear. He does his best to put the thought out of mind.

In some ways, Wash is grateful the Homestead has so few places to melt into the walls. In others, he hates it. He doesn't want to lose any more of himself, doesn't want to bleed his color and vitality into the foggy other of his two-dimensional world, doesn't want to worry the other Links who are already more concerned for him than anyone else has ever, _ever_ been. But... sometimes, when he's stressed and panicked and itching to hide, when the world is too loud and too bright and too overwhelming, he just wants to flatten himself into the wall and rest.

It's on one such day that Sav finds him hiding in the house, huddled in a heap under his bunk, wrapped up in his blanket with his hands pressed over his ears. Wash tries to explain, but his mouth is too dry and his tongue is too heavy and his lips are too clumsy, and he can't seem to string together a coherent sentence, instead stumbling over a string of nonsense syllables. It doesn't matter to Sav, who slides him out from under the bunk, still wrapped in his blanket, and carries him out of the house and towards the back of the Homestead.

They reach the fence, and Sav frees one arm to vault over it without putting him down. Wash is... honestly, he's disproportionately grateful. Out here, even in his blanket bundle, he feels exposed. Vulnerable. Like he's about to die, even when he knows he's in no danger. Crushed against Sav's chest, a strong arm holding him tight, he feels just a little bit safer.

Sav reaches the barren hills and doesn't stop walking. Instead, he carefully picks his way up the steep cliffside without loosening his grip. They climb for almost twenty minutes, and with each passing moment, each step that takes them farther and farther from the Homestead, Wash feels a little lighter. A little calmer. A little less hollow, cracked, broken, empty, useless.

They reach a flat clifftop that overlooks the Homestead, but isn't close enough to see through the trees, or hear unless someone shouts. Up here, on the cliff, there are no bright colors. Just browns and reds and a few dusty grays. Up here, there are no loud sounds. Just the whistling wind. Up here, there are no strong smells—no smells he can distinguish at all, actually. Up here, there are no overwhelming tactile sensations. Just the haptic feedback of his clothes, his blanket, his own weight pressing down on the ground. Suddenly, his head is so much clearer, the fuzziness fading out. Suddenly the pressure of existence is so much lesser, and he doesn't feel like he's choking on the solidity of the world around him.

"I like to come up here sometimes, when everything gets to be too much," Sav says, quietly, not meeting Wash's gaze. "You can come up here whenever you need to, understand?"

**Author's Note:**

> Wash. Wash, my poor boy! Most of his angst (which is centered around everyone thinking he's super creepy) doesn't really show up here, thanks to the prompt I pulled. Instead, it deals with a sort of bizarre mix of anxiety and depression, between the exhaustion and the sensory overload. At least, that's the best description I can come up with.
> 
> Seriously though, that bracelet is one of the creepiest things ever.


End file.
